Heartless Love
by LaraWho
Summary: There's far too many entangled love triangles at Hogwarts during Harry's fourth year.


**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and places created and owned by J.K. Rowling. In other words, I don't own anything.**

**Author's Note: This story is written for Harry's fifth year, after the Goblet of Fire. It posits an alternate universe in which Siruis is still alive, as are Dumbledore and Snape; Fudge remains the Minister of Magic, Lupin is the D.A.D.A. teacher, and so on.**

**Hope you enjoy! Please R&R.**

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><p>The Gryffindor common room was quiet. The usual bustle and cheerful chatter was absent; it was curiously peaceful, silent except for the merry crackling of the fireplace.<p>

Ginny was curled up in one of the large, squashy armchairs in the far corner, staring into the fire with an unreadable expression on her pale face. Her hair had been twisted up into a messy bun, but a few fiery strands hung loose, catching the dancing firelight and glinting a burnished red-gold.

She remembered clearly the evenings she had spent with Dean in this same corner, on the rare days that they had had enough time to spend with each other. The talk and laughter would go on around them, but for her it was just Dean, him on the armchair and her sitting on the floor, leaning against his legs and closing her eyes as they talked.

And they talked about everything. Not just about classes and Quidditch, but about their outside lives. Ginny could go on and on about the Burrow—the garden gnomes, the kitchen clock, the meadow where she played Quidditch with her brothers—and Dean would laugh whenever she told him about the flying car, and the time Fred and George had given Dudley Ton-Tongue Toffees on purpose...

But most of all she loved hearing about his life, the pretty, spacious house that he had in Ireland, the mother that had taken care of him and his sisters that he loved more than anything else in the world. She had heard about Muggle life enough from her father, but listening Dean talk about it was intoxicating. She listened intently whenever he told her about soccer—his favorite sport—and the electronics in their house, and the pictures that never moved, never talked. He would stroke her hair almost absently as he talked, and hour after hour would pass until they were the only ones left in the common room. They could have stayed there forever, and her trance would be broken only when an ill-tempered Ron—his prefect's badge gleaming on his too-small pajama shirt—stomped downstairs, and the two of them would go up to bed with a parting kiss at the bottom of the staircase.

She could never sleep, though. No matter how hard she tried, she would always end up in the same place—sitting on the edge of her bed, barefoot and in her pale yellow nightgown, holding in her fingers the plastic cigarette lighter that Dean had given her so long ago—and she would flick it on and off, watching as the flame crackled into life, dancing in the dark room and casting shadows along the floor.

_It looks just like your hair, _Dean had told her, the night he lit it in front of her. She remembered reaching her finger out to the fire when he lit it, feeling the warmth on her skin.

_It's like magic, _she'd marveled, leaning forward.

_Careful, _Dean warned.

_I can take care of myself, _she remembered retorting.

He laughed. _I know. But—_he hugged her to him—_I would never want anything to happen to you._

She smiled in response and leaned back into his chest, and they watched the flame flicker until they heard Ron's footsteps on the stairs and Dean blew it out.

_Our little secret, _he promised as he slid it into her hand.

Now, as Ginny sat alone in the common room, she unconsciously reached for the lighter—nestled in the hollow of her throat on a delicate silver chain, beside the heart-shaped charm that had been her birthday present from her parents.

Dean had smiled when she showed it to him. She remembered him fingering both of the charms.

_So I'm closer to your heart, _he'd teased her.

She had only smiled, taking the necklace from him and letting the charms drop beneath her shirt, out of sight.

_It's still our secret, _she reminded him.

He'd given her other things as well—a ballpoint pen, a few batteries, even an old cellular phone that didn't work because of the magic surrounding Hogwarts—but she treasured the lighter the most, and whenever she was alone she would flick it on just to watch the flame dance. She didn't know how it worked, and she knew her father would be only too happy to tell her, but for now she wanted to keep it unexplained. She liked to see the fire appear with just a brush of her finger, liked to lean forward to feel its heat on her skin.

_Just like magic._

_ -:-_

The lake was smooth and glassy, its black surface mirroring the nighttime sky and the faint glimmer of the stars above. The Hogwarts castle was reflected very clearly; its silhouette was just a shade darker than the lake waters, lit up by a hundred golden lights in the windows as the students prepared to go to bed. The muted sound of sleepy chatter and soft laughter drifted across the grounds, a ghostly symphony of voices hovering on the windless air.

Hermione traced her finger lazily through the water, watching the castle's reflection tremble slightly as ripples ran lightly across the surface. She could see her own mirror image in the lake's inky depths: the dark, tangled locks ot hair that tumbled loosely over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with her pale skin and the even paler white of her cloak. The moonlight turned her brown eyes to black and darkened the shadows beneath them to the color of bruises. She looked colorless—like the black-and-white pictures in the Muggle newspapers, perfectly still in a world full of cold, cold gray.

Almost unconsciously, she imagined Harry's response to this thought.

_You're always overreacting, Hermione. _She could see his green eyes, crinkling at the corners when he smiled; his voice in her head was sharp and amused. _You might want to look into that. _

Thinking about Harry felt like swallowing hundreds of little jagged shards of glass; it was a piercing sort of pain, as though someone had just taken a razor blade and made a very precise cut right between her ribs. She remembered, very clearly, the stillness on his face when she had told him she loved him. Harry was rarely so still, but when he was it gave him an odd sort of coldness, as though he had suddenly turned to stone.

_You're my friend, Hermione, _he'd said very carefully, his mouth pressed into a thin line. _I love you, but not that way._

He'd said other things, too, but it was those words that stuck in her head, those words that she thought about almost every night, lying in her dormitory and staring blankly at the ceiling. They echoed in her mind sometimes: when she was walking down the hallway with him and he smiled at her, or when they were studying together in the library, his head so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her skin. It was as though a tiny spark of hope ignited inside her—_maybe he does love me, after all—_only to be snuffed out by the cold memory of his voice, hardened by an edge she had never heard in it before.

_I love you, but._

Neither of them had ever mentioned it again. Hermione had been coolly polite to him for a while afterwards—Ron noticed but didn't say anything—but after a spell the three of them had fallen back into their old pattern, laughing and talking on the grounds together, walking to class side by side, sitting by each other at lunch with the other Gryffindors. It still hurt, but it was like a bruise, aching only when she pressed it. The rest of the time, she simply tried to pretend it wasn't there, although that was easier said than done.

Sighing softly, Hermione looked out across the lake. Its watery surface was sequined with light—fragments of moonlight that glimmered like slivers of ice, and the stars, which seemed fainter than usual, no more than silvery specks against a backdrop of dark night sky.

For a moment, she sat there, looking at the different points of light reflected in the lake's depths. All of them different, some brighter than others—but each with its own beauty, as perfect and unique as an untouched snowflake.

Without knowing why, she reached for her wand and whispered, "_Lumos._"

It lit up instantly, and as she stood up she looked at her reflection again, at the tiny point of light that was hers alone. It was beautiful—and as she extinguished it and made her way back up to the castle, she held the warmth of it close to her heart, the pinprick of light that was like a spark of hope igniting in her chest.

_Maybe..._


End file.
